


Wake up and run

by marlowe78



Series: Wake up-verse [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Explicit Language, Gen, M/M, Rape/Non-con References, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:09:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marlowe78/pseuds/marlowe78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all seemed like a dream, a fantasy so promising that it couldn't be true. It's really weird that when he finds out that sometimes, dreams not only come true, but have been true all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake up and run

**Author's Note:**

> _[This prompt](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/44194.html?thread=10990242#t10990242) wanted to be written. Or better, I wanted to read a story based on it and since I get the feeling that my wishes don't come true often, I did it myself._
> 
> _________________________________________________________________________________________________

When he comes to, it’s not some slow waking, a gentle drift from unconscious to conscious. There is no soft pillow on which he lies and no coffee-scents wafting in the room, waking him from this weird, horrible, strange dream.

No, when Jensen wakes, he’s on his knees, near choking on someone’s dick down his throat and coarse, disgusting-smelling hair is tickling his nose, threatening to make him sneeze. Which would probably be really, really bad.

“Yeah, take it, swallow, you slut” the man pants above him, and Jensen would like to see his face, just for confirmation, but there is a huge, wobbly, fat belly in his way. He’s pretty sure, though, that it’s Malcolm Maliro, guest of honor of his Master.

 _No, not Master_ he argues with himself while robotically going through the well-known and well-practiced, well-taught motions of slurping and tonguing and relaxing his jaw for the wobbly, thankfully rather unimpressive dick. _Not Master. Abductor, rapist, torturer and slave-owner. NOT Master_

With that thought comes realization: what he’d been dreaming of all these nights, sometimes even days, what has been haunting his fever-pitches and consoling him in the dark pits of Solitary has not been a dream, a confusion, a wish or a fantasy. No, it’s actually true.

He’s First Lieutenant Jensen Ackles, twenty-three, resident of Chalagria, capital of the small moon Balarota since his parents had fled there from the Great War on their home-planet with him and his siblings, twenty sectems before. Or maybe more, he’s not entirely too sure how long he’d been here. He’s been in the Resistance the moment he was old enough to carry a weapon – fifteen, parentless and alone after the War had spread over to Balrota and taken his family’s home as a Soldier-Unit’s headquarter. While his Dad had burned, staked on a cross in the front-yard, his brother had been flogged to death and his mother and sister… Jensen never wanted to think about them, and he sure as Fuck doesn’t want to now.

He’d only been spared death and torture because a man, dark-haired and fierce, had grabbed him before he could’ve rushed home after seeing and hearing his father and brother die in the front-yard. He’d spent the night with Petja two streets over, been sent back home by Petja’s family when news about the attack had come through – hours after it had already happened. The man, Jeff, had clasped a hand over his mouth and hissed into his ear to stay calm, not scream, don’t do anything stupid, but Jensen had struggled so hard, had bitten and kicked the man that he’d finally grabbed his carotid-vein and made all his senses vanish.

When he’d woken, he’d been a soldier.

Not trained, mind you, but he’d been absorbed into the Resistance at once, fierce, scared but determined to spare others what had happened to him, to his family.

Jeff had trained him, had taught him more than just firing a blaster or fighting with knives. He’d showed him how to fight with hands and teeth and feet, how to fight dirty since “there ain’t no rules in this war, kid”, and he’d soaked every advise up like a sponge.

He’d been a Lieutenant, leader of a unit of seven since he’d turned nineteen, and nobody had ever questioned his abilities or doubted that he’d deserved the rank. Hell, most of his men had been younger than him anyway.

Now, on his knees in the dirt, everything that had been clear to him before, that had shoved his mind, all of him, deep down behind a wall and had made his past seem like a dream had crumbled, and he had woken, clear-headed and already assessing his position, his options and his solutions.

The past … three sectems? Or has it been less? More? – is now dream-like, is now feeling like a horrible dream. But it’s true, he knows that much. Fuck, his position is making that painfully obvious. The man – Malcolm – grunts and huffs and shoves himself deep into his throat, squishing his shrivelly, old and probably unwashed balls against Jensen’s chin.

It takes all of his will-power to not make a sound of disgust, to swallow, to suppress the urge to bite off the fucker’s dick. He knows he can do that, had been forced to do it once already, and … yeah, ok, it might not have been the best idea in that situation, but it had at least given him a warm feeling of accomplishment for the rest of the night.

Later, the Trainer’s men had come to teach him some manners, and Jensen Ackles had died.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, oh fuck, fuck-k, fuckfuck - yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh” Malcolm nearly collapses when he comes, a fickle trickle of semen all that runs down Jensen’s throat and it’s not that hard to swallow that. It’s really not much and he knows – remembers – that he’d been trained to take much more.

Distantly, very distantly, Jensen wonders if that disgusting fucker had already taken him before. This small amount of come cannot really be all that this fat wobble has in him, can it? But then again, he reckons, it really doesn’t matter.

In the end, Fatty really does collapse and it twists Jensen’s stomach to go about his duties, to wash him and fasten his loose leg-wear again, roll him onto the mattress that’s there for exactly this purpose, or maybe to provide some more comfort if the guest should decide to engage in a different kind of ‘play’.

Comfort for the guest, of course.

Jensen still does what’s expected of Twotwentynine, the good little slave, the timid creature that had been born the night Jensen had died. He does all that and more, shakes himself mentally to drop back into the mindset of the slave, straightens his loincloth and lets his shoulders droop, hangs his head low and kneels back into the corner, where he has to wait until the Quartermaster will find him to get him back to some other duty.

While he’s there, the pain in his legs from the strain of constant kneeling just a tiny nagging on the back of his mind, Jensen thinks.

He remembers, remembers the night he and his unit got ambushed. Remembers John and Larry, Colin and Rob, Celina, Alyssa and Grit scream in terror when the Soldiers took them down with the painful forcefield, remembers the searing agony all through his limps when they got him as well.

He remembers them all together in the compound, the days on display, starved, dehydrated and hung from chains on the ceiling so everyone who had some wealth could check them out, could grab them and touch them and stick fingers into them and then decide if they were worthy of living, if they were worth the credits to train them.  
He remembers the trial that to all intents and purposes was nothing but a show of force, a proof of power and a travesty. Remembers the verdicts, every single one of them.

John Miller – death by strangulation.

Grit McMasters – slavery.

Alyssa McMasters – slavery.

Lawrence deHaviland – death by strangulation.

Colin Murdoch – death by strangulation

Robert Murdoch, who’d fought two guards to spare his brother a beating – death by fire.

Celina Cavelli – slavery.

Jensen Ackles – seventy lashes with the whip, slavery.

After witnessing his men die a gruesome, unnecessarily cruel death, after taking his whipping for being their leader, after seeing his female companions – his girlfriend – sold to dirty, drooling old men, after realizing that he was the only man to stay alive, the only one spared death even after begging for it, Jensen had been sure that there wasn’t anything worse that could happen to him now.

In a way, he’d been right. He’d never again had to witness a friend burn for protecting his kin, had never again seen friends strangle to death, choking, struggling and fighting until they’d turned blue. Had never again seen three of the toughest women he knew walk silently and proud into a very unsure future, heads held high.

He had, though, been subjected to the whip more than once since then, the last time only a week ago, as his shoulders remind him every time he moves wrong.

And he’d learned what it means to pray for death, deep in the dungeons of the Trainer, after they’d falsely believed him ready to provide a hole for oral sex.

Even though Jensen fights to shove every recollection of that time deep, deep down into his mind, where it had been sitting before, the memory of the hand shoving him into the wall, the crack of his scull hitting the rough stone, the clear, sharp star of pain behind his eyes is still pushing through.

Thankfully, he doesn’t remember much that happened between his scull-fracture and his first day with Master – with Anton Legoran, his … the man who’s been ruling his life. Until today.

A groan escapes his lips when his head starts to hurt again. He’s lived with this pain all of his time here, hasn’t known a day that went by without it. He’s used to it, glad that it developed from a puke-inducing migraine into a sharp sting, glad that he can now suppress any notion of it and doesn’t have to be punished again for ‘speaking out of turn’ or ‘being not obedient’ when he’d lain curled in a ball, unable to move without puking out his guts.

He kneels in his corner and waits for Telo, their Quartermaster. He’s a sick fuck, a cruel bastard with a means streak a mile long, and he’ll surely give him a disgusting task on top of performing.

It’s not Jensen’s usual job, at least, to be fucked and used by men or the occasional woman. He’s really grateful, now that he for once can be again, that his strong physique hasn’t suffered too much from the lean food he’s provided, grateful that most of Legoran’s guests prefer females or the narrow young boys they keep for that purpose.

Jensen feels horrible to be grateful for pedophilia, but he’s long ago acknowledged that whatever makes him not dead can be used as advantage and is therefore a good thing.

And since the last orgy had proved fatal to two of the little kids, Legoran hasn’t stocked up his boy-toys again so there’s only Tim now. And Tim, though really a cute kid that makes Jensen’s heart bleed upon sight, is beyond saving. He’s an empty shell, only eating when they tell him to, only using the toilet on command, absolutely not able to do anything but breathe on his own, and Jensen’s sure one day in the near future, Tim will stop doing that as well.

Jensen doesn’t know about Tim from his own interactions with the kid. Couldn’t, because he’d been dead, been Twotwentynine, the broken, beaten-down, empty-gazed slave that’d been scared of flies buzzing in a room. But Jared had known. Jared had told him, had sat next to Twotwentynine and talked about his day and about trying to get the light back into Tim. Even in his broken state, Jensen had known that if Jared can’t do that, Tim is lost forever.

Jared.

Floppy-haired, lanky kitchen-slave Jared with a free spirit even though he’d been born in slavery. His mother had been the hidden delight of her owner’s twenty-year-old son and Jared’s birth had meant her death for having un-permitted sexual contact the day Jared was old enough to work. She’d been a good mom, Jared liked to say, for as long as he’d been a toddler. Her owner, a stern woman, had taken a liking to the little ball of energy, and instead of doing what was her due, killing her slave in front of her offspring and selling her fruits off to the market, she’d sold the kid to a friend who needed a kitchen-slave, done so before killing his mother even.

Maybe that’s why Jared is so happy? He never had to see… but no, Jensen stops himself. No, that’s not the solution to the puzzle. Jared is Jared, and he’d witnessed too many slaves die and be punished for nothing to possibly be so bright.

Jared is the reason Jensen’s still sitting here. Because, he’d realized while rolling Fatty away from him, without Jared, he can’t leave. Or, well, he could leave, but he doesn’t want to. Jared had made his life less miserable than it had any right to be, had made it bearable, had, even in the timid Twotwentynine woken enough spirit to wish for something better, for freedom. With Jared’s influence, the dreams of being a strong man had come, the painful fantasies of killing Lagoran in his sleep, snapping Telo’s spine with his bare hands and leaving the house of punishment and degradation in ruins had made his nights a little less horrible.

Jared is only nineteen, and in so many ways he’s more mature than Jensen is, has maybe ever been.

The kid’s still a kitchen-boy, one that hasn’t yet come to the attention of Lagoran or his wife – something that maybe all of the household’s slaves have their hands in. Even Telo never lets Jared out of the kitchen, probably because he hates sharing and what his Master’s don’t know …

Oh yes, Jared is Telo’s. He takes him every three nights into his chamber, closes the curtain and makes the kid sob through the thin drapery so everyone can hear them.

He makes Jared scream, but never damages him, never hurts him in a way that would leave a mark or a limp. Whatever he does to the boy, Jared’s not talking about it, even though he talks about everything else. Hell, he’d even talk about his bowel-movement if they’d allow him to.

Tonight is the third night, but this time, Jared won’t go. Jensen’ll make sure of that.

Fatty snores and snuffles on the mattress and shakes Jensen from his daydream, from his planning and strategizing. And it’s a good thing, for he can hear the _flapsnap-flapshove_ of the Telo’s bare feet on the cold tiles. Jensen – Twotwentynine! – drops his head and assumes his position of obedience just as the hated man knocks on the doorframe. There are no solid doors on any room except the private quarters of the Master and his Wife, only curtains hung to provide a minimum of privacy. It’s safe to say that the slaves don’t even have walls around their sleeping-blankets on the floor, so privacy is really a non-issue for them. Telo, limping hard from his crooked knee – Kadisha from the laundry, told Jared – who then told Twotwentynine – that he’d been attacked by a slave a few sectems back, leaving him crippled permanently. Jared’s eyes had gleamed while telling the tale, and Twotwentynine had cowered on his mattress, knees drawn up to his chin as had been his habit then. He’d listened intently, but without emotion, only taking in the animation on his friend’s face. He’d not cared then about the story but about the only joy his days had held: watching Jared talk.

Now, though, Jensen remembers the actual tale, and wonders if the man that had resisted and fought is still alive somewhere, or if he’s buried in the cesspit behind the yard where every used-up slave ends.

Probably the latter, he thinks as he cowers under Telo’s hard, wicked stare. His mind is running wild laps of how he could take the man, counting the ways to kill him at once without much of a struggle, probably without any struggle at all, since Telo doesn’t know who he is. He only knows Twotwentynine, and Twotwentynine would never even think anything but _Pleasenopleasepleaseplease_.

Jensen, though, thinks about how he could gut that man with the spoon that’s lying only a half skittritch away.

“Tztztz” Twotwentynine may be back to Jensen Ackles, but his body isn’t over trembling in fear from the sneer on the man in front of him. The Lieutenant already adjusts his plans to that little obstacle, allowing margins for unexpected and unwanted bodily reactions, while his limbs develop goosebumps and his bladder threatens to spill.

That, though, hasn’t happened since his Quartermaster stuffed a vibe inside his urethra and making him keep it inside for two days.

A spoon would be way too merciful, Jensen thinks. There might be some bleach still left from the cleaning.

“Twotwentynine, you’ve been a good boy?” Jensen feels his body nod and leaves it to it, letting his mind roam. “Good, I see our guest is well taken care of. I’d be really unhappy if I had to punish you, you know the Mistress doesn’t like seeing welts she didn’t make herself”

This time, the shudder comes from mind and body alike. Mistress Angela. A more misplaced name couldn’t be found in the entire galaxy, Jensen is sure. While Lagoran is hard and quick with the balabas-stick, he’s also entirely too lazy to be creative, doesn’t do or need more than the sharp whistle of the thin, painful wood splitting the skin on his slaves’ backs to satisfy his need for cruelty.

He likes pretty girls around him, hadn’t ever had much use for the toy-boys and is the exact opposite of virile. The male slaves are safe from him, at least in the most basic of sense. He did, though, castrate a young man once who apparently hadn’t met his wife’s standards, had done it himself while the man – boy, really – had screamed and writhed in front of him, legs spread by cuffs that had been fastened to rings in the floor, arms held by two of the guards.

Jensen hadn’t been present, but Ann-Marie had. She hadn’t really stopped crying ever since. Nobody wanted to know more than what the hoarse screams and high-pitched screeches had implied, and they all had been guiltily glad that the man hadn’t survived.

Except, of course, Jared.

So while Lagoran’s cruel and disgusting, he’s pretty easy to anticipate. Telo is much smarter than his own Master, and his punishments are a lot more inventive.

No-one, though, is fit to hold a candle to Angela Lagoran when it comes to creative cruelty. And of course fate would have it that Jensen’s the one to have gotten her attention.

“Too bad, I’d love to give you some more…” Telo smirks as he strokes over Jensen’s shock-cold skin “…like to see them on ya”

 _I bet you do_ Jensen thinks, while Twotwentynine barely breathes in fear.

“So, since Mistress wants to see you in two hours, you better clean up your filthy hide. Brush your teeth, I still remember her complaint from the first tim…”

Oh yeah. Jensen does too. Would give a lot not to.

“Off you go now. Ya waiting for invitation?” a sharp kick lets him sprawl to the floor and the cruel laughter follows him as he scrambles up and out, off to the slaves’ bath.

***

Jared is still in the kitchen, Jensen knows. Will be for a bit still, and the Gordon, the cook, is an unknown quantity to him. There are spies all over the house, set deep in the slave-community. Even though there aren’t that many, only twenty-nine, to be exact, it’s still too much for Jensen to know for sure who is to be trusted.

He only knows about Jared, only cares about him, actually.

Sure, all the others aren’t here by choice either. They’re slaves, for Fuck's sake, of course they aren’t. But there are too many men guarding the paranoid bastard to make a wrong move, make a wrong choice. Jensen has decided, maybe never really had to think about it: he’ll get out, take Jared, kill as many as he can and get over to the Resistance. Burn the house down and give the slaves fair warning, so they can have a chance if they wanna. Tim is beyond saving, or he’d take him for sure, but as it is, the boy would only slow them down. And Jensen cannot afford that.

So he prepares.

Brushes his teeth, combs his hair, washes himself so clean that his skin hurts and stings, even applies the nasty-sweet-smelling lotion Mistress Angela had given him for exact that purpose. She’d be furious if he didn’t smell like the stuff, and there really is no use in pouring oil into the fire. It’s gonna be bad as it is.

He plans his steps while he fumbles with his best, embroidered loincloth – another of the Bitch’s gifts. Jared’s shift in the kitchen ends after Lagoran’s dinner. His wife won’t be eating with him, since she’s got plans – he scoffs – for the night. So round-about eight; the fat man likes to eat a lot and there’ll be cleaning to do after. Usually, by that time, Twotwentynine is at his cubicle, usually rocking back and forth to try and process the day. Usually unsuccessfully. Jared will come to Jensen and sit with him, silent companionship until he’s ready to talk. About plants and life in the country, about beauty that he can see outside the small kitchen-window, about what he’d do if he were to be free, about his dreams and his nightmares.

Not today, though, Jensen remembers with a sharp intake of breath. Today is the third day, Telo will want Jared tonight.

So his schedule is in fact much shorter, Jensen frowns, and starts adjusting his timings.

The Bitch will have him from seven; a long time, though he knows from bitter experience that he can hold out much, much longer, even as timid little Twotwentynine. He’ll be weaker as he already is, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Angela Lagoran’s power doesn’t come from bodily strength, and even weak as a kitten Jensen Ackles could take her.

So up until eight, Telo would be with Lagoran and his guest, serving as is his duty. Jared’ll get out of the kitchen around eight-thirty, maybe, so if Jensen’s finished with the Bitch, his friend will probably be safe enough. He might wonder where Twotwentynine is, but he won’t wander off, knowing it’ll get just that much harder for him if Telo were to go look for him.

Then there are the guards. They usually stick around Angela for thirty minutes, just in case she’s in a mood for sharing – which she rarely is these days, thank Fuck. So he’s got half an hour to get out of whatever position she’s placed him in, kill her – he’d prefer to make it a slow death, but he has to go with silent – and get out of the room and back to the slaves’ quarters.

Getting there won’t stage a problem, but he has to kill the guards, and that’s where it might get tricky. The men are trained, and though they’re complacent, they have way more muscle than he does. His only chance will be the element of surprise, and he’s gonna use it wisely.

“Twotwentynine” a voice snarls through the intercom, and he straightens up, only to slump back into his usual cowered slouch. “Mistress Angela will be awaiting your company in sixty seconds”

***

She’s in a brilliant mood today, Jensen thinks as he obediently drops down between her legs. She’s telling him how talented his is with his tongue, praising his mouth and how much their guest had enjoyed it. How she’s been thinking about renting it out more often, since it’s such a success. Jensen’s really glad that he’s not required to answer to that.

Her thin, clawlike fingers grab his hair and pull him deeper into her cunt, groaning in bliss when his tongue wiggles like he knows she likes.

Pleasing the Mistress has been a hard learning-process, and Jensen is really grateful that Twotwentynine had already been broken before she started. If he’d been himself, he wouldn’t have survived the humiliation, degradation and sheer torture she’d applied to him. He wouldn’t have died, but Jensen’s pretty sure that she’d have shattered his mind into too many bits to ever be picked up again.

Tim had been with her, the night the light went out of him.

“Oh, my pretty, pretty little boy. Soooo good to me, oh…oh…... ... “ he tunes her out. The sound of her coming is always the same and promises pain and humiliation for him. Jensen lets Twotwentynine take over again, lapping up her liquids without disgust. _Jensen_ would’ve puked.

When she’s satisfied, she shoves his head out of her lap and pushes him away with her foot against his shoulder. A dull thud and a suppressed groan results from his bare ass hitting the carpet, since he can’t use his hands to save him from that. She usually ties his arms above his elbows behind his back, so he’s got limited movement. It’s no trouble for Lieutenant Ackles to get out of these binds, but against Twotwentynine, they’re effective restraints.

If there ever would’ve been a threat the poor kid could pose, Jensen thinks and mentally pets his other personality. He’ll probably need a little counseling, when he’s back to the Resistance, he smirks internally.

“Oooow, did poor little pretty boy fall on his ass? Did that _hurt_ you, darling?” the Bitch coos.

 _No,_ he wants to snarl _but the fucking thing you put in it did, you disgusting, vile old shrivel-cunt!_

She makes him get up on his knees – wow, he’s got callus on them – and sends the guards outside. “I’m good, thank you”, Angela tells them gruffly, already tuned into the game she’s gonna play now. The clock on the wall says seven-fifteen, and no way can that be right.

Except the one on her arm says the same, and so Jensen prepares for a long, long forty minutes. Maybe he could kill her sooner and just wait until eight?

***

“I swear, this is hard work with you”

Jensen is sweating, hurting and biting his lips to not scream. She made him come twice already, stimulating his prostate with more force than really necessary and wringing the last drops of semen out of him. He knows, ordinarily she’d force him into orgasm at least three times more tonight, ride him at least twice until he's sore and she can't take anymore, and he’s really glad that her death will come before he does.

Yes, he can make puns while being fucked by a woman and her toys. He’s a bit surprised himself.

“Come on, I know you like that. Your little tight fuck-hole” – she’s a really classy lady, that one – “likes to be stuffed. Oooooo” Jensen doesn’t like that tone at all “Ooooooh, I know. I remember, darling” she suddenly coos “how much you liked me inside you. Oooh, yes, I’m gonna do that again. Just stay like this, pet. Be right back with the glove”

No.

No, absolutely not. Twotwentynine gets shoved back, because while Jensen can deal with the discomfort of toys and her sharp nails, he doesn’t want her hand inside him ever again.

His whole body shudders with the memory of that, and Jared had cried that night when Jensen’d been carried back into his cubicle and dumped onto his mattress. She’s cruel and hard and had gotten herself to completion with her fingers while fucking in and out of him, not caring about being careful.

That had been the only time he’d been officially too sick to work, and not even Telo had called him lazy.

So while Angela is in the adjacent bathroom, searching for the long gloves, Jensen grabs the scissors from her shelve, pulls his arms back as far as they go, grabs hold of the rather long leather-band that connects his cuffs and cuts them off. The strain on his arms is not pleasant, but certainly worth the freedom of movement. Twotwentynine wouldn’t really care, but Jensen does, and so he grabs a pair of shorts from one of the drawers, always listening for her sounds in the bathroom.

She’s with her back to the door when he follows, thin, dark-dyed hair in disarray from the night’s activities, and with a shock she spots him in the mirror.

“What…” is the only thing she can say before her eyes widen with the recognition that the man behind her is not the timid little slave she uses to torture. It’s also the last thing she can say before he neck snaps like a brittle old twig and Jensen catches her, carries her over to position her in her bed and arrange the covers over her.

He’d rather leave her strung from the ropes she likes to tie him with, hanging spread-eagled from the ceiling, but there is no time and he also wants to allay any kind of alarm for as long as possible.

Jensen can’t do much about her staring, open eyes, but he turns her over on her belly and shifts her arm up so the corpse would look like she’s asleep. Her husband won’t come in her room today, if he ever does, so there’s a good chance her death won’t be discovered before morning.

It’s clock eight as he sneaks to the door, presses his ear against the wood. He can hear a silent mumble, so the guards are close by but talking. Not prepared.

Jensen swiftly puts his loincloth back over the shorts and lets some part of Twotwentynine return. Timidly, he opens the door, stares at the floor in front of the two burly men and shuffles uncomfortably.

“Hey, lookit. She finished already with ya?”

“Can’t be, kid’s still standin’”, the other laughs and Jensen’s heart swells with rage. How can the same species that creates art, that built the sprawling cathedra-plains of Balrota and that wrote the Scroll of Everlasting Rights laugh about someone getting fucked and tortured in front of their eyes? How can a species develop such pits of character that nobody would ever believe the first directive of the Scroll was “It is an Everlasting Right of every rationally-thinking being to be treated like you would want to be treated yourself”?

He shuffles a half-step forward before he twists on his heel, kicks the first guard into his privates with so much force he can feel the _scrunch_ all through his leg and jams the small scissors into his jugular.

He’s dead, even if he doesn’t know it yet, and Jensen’s on the other man in a blink. That one’s bigger, and some surprise should have been out of him, but apparently his job is too cushy to remember training. Jensen’d never let an enemy get the drop on him after already disposing of his partner, but he’s not complaining. He steps inside the guard’s personal space, twists low before the burly ugly fucker can grab him and snatches the knife out of his boot, standard-hiding-place. One cut’s enough to sever his leg-artery, the surprised gasp the last thing this one utters before Jensen’s up in his face, chest to chest and rams the sharp weapon up the guard’s throat.

Swiftly, he crouches again and takes in his surrounding, listening.

No sound that shouldn’t be there, no running or yelling and bit by bit, Jensen lets himself relax. Everything is screaming inside to go get Jared and run, but he’s got to give themselves enough time. With a grunt, he heaves the first, slighter of the guards up under his armpits and drags him inside the Mistress’ bathroom. It’s an effort for his already weak body, but the stupid tasks of hard, manual labor Telo set on him these last sectems has left him with lean muscles. He’s much stronger than he looks, tendons like steelwire and joints that move and bend more than they ever did. So even though both of them weigh at least two-thousand bigils, Jensen manages to stuff them inside the small bathroom, take the leaner guard’s uniform for himself and close the door, even wipes away some of the blood.

It’s not necessary to remove all of it. People will assume it’s his and hurry past.

 _Jared!_ his mind screams, and he runs, the badge that’ll be their ticket out the sealed doors clasped in his hand.

The guards can leave and enter the house, even after hours, and Jensen is really fucking grateful that even in his vegetable-state, Twotwentynine had soaked up information like a sponge.

He’s actually running, something that only errand-slaves should do, but it’s not uncommon. Seeing _him_ run, though, would be a hint for End of the World, since Twotwentynine hadn’t managed more than a hurried shuffle from the sense-memory of his leg-chains that he’d had to wear for… a fucking long time.

His body is screaming at him to stop, to rest, the ache in his backside not worse than usual but certainly not better. But Jensen can run, and he revels in the sensation of stretching his legs and using muscles that have for so long been begging for some attention. It’s round-about nine, give or take a little, and he doesn’t even stop by the slaves’ quarters, running straight by to the small, private cubicle that belongs to Telo. If he’s wrong and Jared’s not with him, he’ll get him later, but killing the ugly motherfucking sonoffabitch will certainly brighten his day.

Jared is with him.

Without even hesitating, Jensen grabs a weapon – the butter-knife, actually – from the small table at the wall, where Jared usually places any leftover food to mellow Telo some. Two quick steps brings him at the Quartermaster’s back and a vicious kick against his crippled knee, he brings him to the floor. He isn’t sure how he does it, but when his red haze is gone, the butter-knife is sticking out of Telo’s neck and Jensen’s covered in blood, which is still pulsing from the dead man into the ugly, cheap piece of carpet.

He heaves deep breaths, tries to get his heartrate down to a usable rhythm, and looks around.

Jared.

Jared is sitting on the bed, a outcast old frame from one of the children, probably, but a bed nonetheless. And Jared is staring at him like he’s from the Outer Rim Territories, a stranger, a threat and not his best friend.

“Jay” Jensen whispers, because his voice hasn’t been used for much except screaming during his time as a slave. “C’mon, we gotta go” He reaches for his friend and his heart aches, thuds against his ribcage and presses against his lungs when Jared scrambles back and away from him. “Jay… Jared, please”

“Wh-who are you?” his best friend asks, and Jensen can’t understand himself inside his head, where Twotwentynine is begging and screaming at Jared to come help him, to follow the man and get out, away. “Wh-what d’you want from me?”

“It-it’s me. Jensen” he answers, but realizes that his name won’t mean anything to the boy. “Twotwentynine” he adds, even though his throat threatens to close around the name.

“What? No! What?”

“Jay, Jared, please, come with me. Please, we…we gotta get out. If we want a chance here, we gotta leave the Fuck now!” _The uniform_ his head tells him _he cannot recognize you in this uniform_. But even though Jensen appreciates the effort, his heart knows it’s the murder in his eyes, the proof of violence on his hands and blood-spattered clothes and face that makes him unrecognizable to his friend. He’s not Twotwentynine, timid, scared and gentle anymore. He’s Lieutenant Jensen Ackles, and he’s fought and killed and commanded before he was even legally allowed to drive a hover.

“Please” he whispers again, rapidly losing hope they’ll make it with Jared still cowering as far away as possible. “Please”

***

“Twotwenty?” Jay whispers “’s that really you?”

 _yesyesyes_ Jensen’s mind shouts in joy, “Yes, ‘s really me”, Jensen’s mouth answers. “I’ll explain, but Jared, if you ever wanted to get out, be free, see the sunset on a beach, now’s your time. I’m leaving, and I’m taking you with me. C’mon”

This time, when he holds out his hand, Jared leaps from his position and bounds over to him, but instead of grabbing his hand, the kid jumps at Jensen and clasps his neck, legs encircling his waist. It’s nearly too much for him to hold up, and Jensen stumbles backward before Jared releases him, whispering “I knew it I knew it I knew it” over and over and over.

He might’ve gotten a little emotional there, Jensen might admit under torture. No tears, but close. “Off we go, grasshopper” he tries to joke but his voice is still shot to hell.

“I’ll get the others” Jared says, and yeah… that’s what Jensen has been fearing deep down.

“Jay…”

“What?”

“We…we’re not taking anyone else”

“What? No. Yes we are!”

“It’s hard enough for us two. We don’t know who would betray us. We’ll give them a warning, ok, leave the doors open, and I already have all I need to light a fire. But we’re not taking anyone else.”

“A fire? Why a fire?”

Jensen’s voice gets cold and hard “Because I’m not leaving this house standing” He’d not back down, but he doesn’t have to, seeing Jared’s slow, understanding nod.

“Ok. Ok, I get that. But… let’s take Tim, at least. Please?”

“Jay… the kid’s … he’s gone. You told me, remember?”

“All the more reason to get him out! I’m not leaving him here to be tossed in the cesspit or used even more. You of all should –“ he snaps his mouth shut, shuffles a little uncomfortably and Jensen can’t help but be amazed that after staying friends so long, the first time he really talks to Jared they have a fight.

“Ok” he amends, because even though Jared was a little insensitive there, he was right. Jensen wouldn’t want to die in this house either, no matter what state he’d be in. “But you carry him”

He’s much more pleased with his decision when Jared’s smile brightens the room.

***

Despite the delay, they get out fine. Jensen only has to kill one more guard, and he’s not feeling especially guilty about shanking him when he was just stepping out of the toilet. But outside proves to be the real challenge. Neither of them has ever set foot outside the house, not that Jensen remembers at least, and the freakishly high wall comes as a nasty surprise.

“We need to get over that” he hisses, “Gimme a liftup”

“What? How?”

“Bend down, make a cradle from your hands – yes, right – and boost me up when I step into it. I’ll grab the wall, pull myself up and get you two over, ok?”

“Why you? Why not me?”

“You’re taller ‘n me. And can you climb the wall? No? So I’ll do it. Don’t worry, Jared” he turns and looks at him “I’m not leaving you here”

“How are the slaves supposed to escape when the wall’s so high?”

Jensen curses. He’s not thought about that, and they really, really don’t have any more time. “I don’t know. You gonna stay and watch?”

Jared shakes his head but looks back sadly. The flames, started in the kitchen, have already reached the hall and will soon devour the sleeping quarters. The Master will probably escape unharmed, but Jensen swears he’s gonna come back and kill him later. Now’s not the time, though.

With a small start, Jensen steps into Jared’s cradled hands and feels himself being lifted high up. He grabs the wall’s edge and uses the remaining impetus to pull up and lie on the top. It’ll be a bitch to get Jay up, he’s lanky and thin, sure, but he’s also a freaking giant.

Jared, though, lifts Tim up first, the boy not reacting beyond what either of the men tell him to do “lift your arms, grab my hand, climb on my back”. Next is Jay, and he trots back a few skittrichs to run and jump. He steps against the high wall and pushes himself up, grasping Jensen’s hand and though they nearly tumble back down, they scramble on top and then over.

Shouts are heard from the house now, yelling and curses, and the two of them don’t wait for anyone to spot them. They’re worn-out from the day, both of them tired beyond tired, as is the norm for a slave, but even though Jensen’s not sure what Jared had to go through before he reached him, his own body is screaming for mercy now.

They can’t stop, though, and he carries on with a punishing speed, even grabs Tim when he notices Jared slowing. He needs to get to a phongraf, he’ll get help, get them safe. It’s just too bad that their former prison is deep in the country.

*****

“Are we sure?”

“Yes, sir. As sure as we can be. It’s his code, his number. If they didn’t somehow make him tell them…” the young man trails off, but his commander shakes his head.

“No, you’re right. It doesn’t make sense for anyone to wait four sectems to use a personal code especially designed for contacting us. If it’s his code, it’s him. Get a team ready, we’ll gonna get him back”

 _Question is, will he still be on our side…_ , the man with the grey beard thinks. He shoves the thought away to deal with it later, if need be. He’s mourned the kid for too long to get overly excited now, but there is the little flicker of hope that’s starting to spark again.

*

They reach the meeting-point ten hours after the contact, and even though there hasn’t ever been a shred of doubt that slavery wouldn’t suit his boy, what he sees takes his breath away like a punch to the solar plexus.

He’d been there, heard the verdicts on his men and women, hidden by the crowds. He’d tried to get to any of the before, but hadn’t even come close. Nobody had, they simply hadn’t had the credits to be granted admission to the viewing.

He’d prayed the kid wouldn’t lose hope, that he’d manage to keep his men at least alive, but they’d all been so fucking young! Children, really, with John, at twenty-four, the oldest among them and the youngest – Colin – barely seventeen. He’d been there when the verdicts were called, death after death after death for the men – boys – and slavery for the girls. And for Jensen, who wasn’t allowed to die like a man.

Oh, he’d understood the reason why Jensen had been spared. Had seen his punishment, had heard his cries for mercy – mercy for Robert, whose agony-filled roars still haunted his dreams, and for his other men who the kid – his kid, just not by blood – had to watch die. He’d seen the whip crack on his kid’s skin, tear it open and cut it to shreds, and he’d seen the girls get taken away.

He had witnessed all that, not because he wanted to, but so he could feel and see what his boy did, so he could at least get an inkling of an idea where his mind was at, to be that tiny bit closer to him.

In the end, it hadn’t mattered. Jensen had been taken away and he’d prayed and prayed for him to resurface, so sure that if anyone could escape it was this boy.

But nothing.

Grit and Celina had been found, but sadly too late. They had died, Grit from a nasty virus, of all things, and Celina from disobedience. Which probably was nice-speak for ‘blunt trauma’, and he’d made sure that both of them were buried as heroes, as it was their due. Alyssa was gone, lost into space as the rumors tell it, and he chooses to believe those that say she ran away with her lover, a dashing space-captain and is now roaming the stars for a better life.

It’s not likely, but then again, Alyssa had been a wild one, always chasing dreams. After all, who knows what’s true, and he stopped looking for her, hoping for a miracle for her.

Jensen, though… Jensen was lost. Like he’d been dropped into a hole, he’d vanished and not left a trace, and even though it pained him, like cutting off a limp, he’d given up after a sectem, certain that his kid was dead.

But he isn’t.

There he is, alive and even smiling, a young man who’s even taller than him at his side. They look bedraggled and worn, there is a new shadow in his boy’s eyes that even after seeing his family die wasn’t there before.

But there’s also something new. A spark, a little bit of joy on his face that he hasn’t seen, under all the grime and bruises that cover his skin.

Jensen is – both of them are – wearing rags, what looks like the remains of a uniform, shared between them. The floppy-haired stranger takes a small but clearly protective step in front of Jensen and tries to look intimidating. He smiles. This kid already has his approval.

But he doesn’t care about the stranger, doesn’t even care about the caution they should apply. This is his boy, and he is alive and smiling cautiously at him, and he tosses all possibilities, all could-bes and maybes and probablies out the window.

“Jeff” his boy mutters, and he steps close and takes him in his arms and finally, finally weeps for him.

He’s back, and Jeffrey will never give up on him again.

 

~end~

 

(continued in "Rest")


End file.
